You Are Still Left With Your Hands
by leverageau
Summary: Porthos, Milady, d'Artagnan, Aramis, and Athos are a team - but as a mission goes wrong and a loss is to be mourned, things are falling apart. Everyone has to deal with the fallout of the mission and try to find a way to carry on (and, somehow, find a way back to each other).
1. I Prefer The Ones In Which You Kill Me

Main title taken from "The Boot Theory" by Richard Siken. All the chapter titles will be taken from "25 lives" by Tongari.  
Pronouns: Porthos, Aramis and Treville use he/him, Milady, Constance and Anne use she/her, Athos uses they/them, and D'Artagnan uses faer/faers.

Warnings will be added chapter by chapter.

 **Chapter warnings:** Violence, angst, (off-screen, implied) character death.

* * *

O N E

 _… I prefer the ones in which you kill me_

Aramis is a ghost. Swift, silent, unseen. The ship's roaring engine sends small but constant vibrations through the floors and walls, and the air is too hot to be comfortable to breathe. Mid-summer, below deck, on a goddamn cargo ship. And, apparently, he's lost. Just his luck. Aramis rolls his eyes – orientation has, sadly, never been his strength – and stops, looking at the turn-off in front of him.

"How are there so many corridors? This is supposed to be a _ship_ , not a maze."

D'Artagnan's voice is soft and amused, sounding through the earpiece directly into his skull: 'Is this you asking for directions, oh great master thief?'

"If you would be so kind, mi ángel."

D'Artagnan chuckles, and Aramis hears the clapping of faer keyboard. He smiles to himself, asking lowly: "Are we alone…?"

'No, as you very well know, we're all listening. So please cut it out and leave it for after we finish this mission.' It's Athos' voice, small and serious and absolutely done already.

'I want to know where this goes." Porthos, the smile brightly in even his voice.

Milady snorts. 'Competition makes for an interesting reunion, I bet.'

"This is purely platonic. I cannot believe you dare suggest otherwise," Aramis gasps in mock-offence. "Doubting young d'Artagnan's intentions like this…!" Porthos laughter is a low rumble, Milady clicks twice with her tongue, and Athos doesn't reply.

'Young d'Artagnan has your directions. If you want them," d'Artagnan says. 'You have to keep-'

 _Stop!_ The shot is sudden and rips through the earpiece like a bullet. It's instinct that Aramis presses himself against the next wall, ducking, while a buzzing sound fills his head and his heart fills with dread. Rustling, hard breathing, steps, voices.

'Athos…?', d'Artagnan asks in rush, clearly not thinking, clearly not thinking, because they are not supposed to use their real names during missions.

'I'm down. They'll get me.' Athos talks softly, but the clipped way they say every word is proof that they are in pain. Somewhere distant, Porthos growls. 'Listen, sweetheart, switch frequency with Ghost now. Alpha, get rid of your pieces. They will search for you. Prioritize the mission. No rescue attempts until it's done, you hear me?'

'Copy,' Milady says and sounds grim.

'Copy', Porthos echoes.

'I- Copy,' d'Artagnan whispers.

"We'll come get you soon," Aramis says, and hears Athos moan in pain. The angry voices are loud now. Suddenly, there's _crunching_. Then Athos' earpiece is dead. "Did they just…?"

'They fucking bit it in two.' Porthos' anger is almost tangible. 'I don't care what they said. We'll get them out. Now. You two focus on finishing this, so we can fucking leave.'

Milady's voice cuts in, calm and sober: 'Don't worry, I have him under control. We'll find them and get them off this ship. We'll get in touch with you once we're out safely. Reunion point is still at the Captain's. Take care, ok?'

'Love you.' Porthos says it so quietly that Aramis almost doesn't hear it.

"You too. Please be safe, my loves." Small beeping sounds of disconnection follow his goodbye. D'Artagnan's breath fills Aramis' ear. "Hey, are you still with me, ángel?" He doesn't get a reply. "Can you switch frequency? For me…?" For a heartbeat he gets the awful feeling that d'Artagnan just left – but then he hears _something_ , like a decrease in tune that needs a moment to regain its full potential until it's back, and he knows that fae is still there. "Thank you. Thank you, ángel. Now, listen, yes? I know it's bad. But I promise we'll make it out. I promise you."

D'Artagnan stays stilent.

"Remember when we were trapped on the rooftop of this skyscraper in Berlin? We thought it'd be over. But you got us out. You, d'Artagnan. All we had to do was trust you and… jump. Tú éras nuestro ángel guardian. You still are. And, frankly, I don't know how to do this without you." D'Artagnan shakes faer head, Aramis _knows_ it because there's rustling and shifting on the other side of the line, and he adds softly: "Please help me."

'Left. Go left. There should be stairs down at the far end of the corridor.'

"Thank you, ángel," Aramis says, pretending not to notice the way d'Artagnan's voice is _off_ , pretending that everything is well, that they will be okay. Swiftly he follows the corridor. The heat is getting thicker, heavier, like he's getting closer to the engines. Sweat droplets build on his skin as he reaches the stairs. There's a door, and it's locked. And secured with a numeric code. Of course it's secured. Frowning at the keypad, he asks: "Want to bet I'm faster than you?" He expects a small laugh – it's their _thing_ , they always compete who can break into wired systems faster -, something, anything but the choked hitch of d'Artagnan's breath.

'Aramis- don't do it. Don't go in there.'

"I'll be quick, in and out, I promise."

'I have a bad feeling about this. And it's not because of… what happened earlier. Something is _wrong_. Please believe me.'

"We need to finish this."

' _Please_. Trust me.'

"I do, but you have to trust me too, ok? I can handle it." And Aramis is so sure of himself, so caught up in wanting to finish this mission to make Athos' sacrifice worthwhile, that he ignores d'Artagnan's desperate protest and tries out number combinations. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The heat creeps up his back, and anxiety builds up in his chest. He wonders if the system is linked to a guard's computer, that there's silent alarm since he typed in the false combination for the first time, that they will get him, like they got Athos, that he will _fail_ , as the door suddenly clicks open.

"I'm in." It's more an exhale than an actual voiced sentence. "We'll be home soon now."

'Go back, I fucking beg you, Aramis.'

He opens the door in one fluid movement. "I _can't_. I'm so close. _We're_ so close. Just trust me-" He has no time to say anything more, not even to scream, to breathe, to brace himself, as the bullet hits him and he hits the floor. The air gets forced out of his lungs just as the blood forces itself out of the wound. He feels it wet and hot, yet painless. What…?

' _Aramis_!'

Feeling dizzy, he lets his fingertips feel over the wound – just to find a bolt sticking out of it. That was why it's been so silent. He's triggered a mechanism. He almost laughs, thinking of the hilarity of a _bolt_ hitting him under deck of a _ship_ , but then reality hits him. Harder than the bolt. He can't breathe.

'Aramis, what happened? Aramis, talk to me!'

"I'm sorry." Now the pain burns into his rib cage with overwhelming severity. He can watch the pool of blood go bigger with every second, every heartbeat, and realizes that it must have destroyed a blood vessel. Because it shouldn't bleed so damn much with the bolt still in his body. "Fuck. I'm sorry, ángel. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."

'Get out of there. Please. Just- please leave.'

"Can't." Black and white dots start dancing in front of his eyes. Maybe the bolt's poisoned, because he's losing the ability to move his limbs. It all goes so fast. All he can do is feel and _see_ how he bleeds out. On the floor. To the relentless roaring of the engines. Alone.

 _He won't see them again._

He sobs helplessly. "I'm sorry."

'Aramis, are you hurt? Talk to me, please, talk to me.'

"It was a trap."

'Are you okay?' D'Artagnan's self control sounds strained, like fae tries not to scream.

"I'm bleeding. Can't get up. I don't think- I won't make it."

'Stop. Don't say another word, unless you say it to me face.'

"It's my own fault. I should've…"

'Stay with me, Aramis. Focus. The others will check in with me soon and then they will find you and get you out. Do you hear me? Just hold on for a few minutes.'

"I'm scared."

'I know. Me too. But I'm here with you, ok? I won't leave.'

Aramis swallows hard. There's a bitter taste in his mouth. He should be grateful that he's not spitting or coughing blood, but his hands and feet are numb, and he doesn't know why. His body just shrills in panic. "I'm dying. I'm dying, d'Artagnan."

'You're _not_.'

"I'm sorry."

'If you say that one more time…' Faer voice cracks.

"Okay… I won't… thank you, ángel. For everything."

Now, d'Artagnan laughs, distraught, and says with a shaking voice: 'That's even worse.'

Aramis wants to nod, smile, but he can't bring himself to it. He feels heavy. Too heavy. There are faint footsteps approaching. They are distant, but they _are_. Someone will find him. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter. "You have to log out. They mustn't trace this back to you."

'I'm not. I'm not doing this. I'm not leaving you to _die_.'

"Please… they can't know… please, ángel."

'Aramis. _Aramis_.'

He's losing consciousness, softly, like someone lowers a blanket over his mind that blacks him out, but he can make out people. Figures. Coming near him, talking in hushed voices. Two of them. Closing his eyes, he prays that they will end his life fast. He prays that they won't find d'Artaganan. That the others can escape.

It's mercy that he's numb now.

'Aramis!'

 _Sorry, ángel…_


	2. In Our Time Together

**Chapter warnings** : Heavy angst, self-harm and gore-y stuff (nothing too graphic, though).

* * *

T W O

 _… In our time together I have many bad ideas_

The gravestone is made from white marble, golden letters glistening in the sun. They spell Aramis' name, d'Artagnan _knows_ that, but fae can't look at them. Wouldn't be able to make them out anyway, because faer sight is blurred with tears.

 _I killed you. It's all my fault. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Aramis._ D'Artagnan tries to follow the priest's words, but fae can't focus, can't concentrate, not even for honoring Aramis' memory at his goddamn _funeral_. Fae keeps breathing, but not really. The deadness is omnipresent. Fae feels like fae is suffocating, like the guilt presses down so hard that fae gets crushed under the weight, ribs cracking, lungs bursting, death grabbing at faer heart. And while fae can barely bear the guilt, it's still better than Milady's empty eyes looking past everyone and everything, Porthos' broken expression and slumped posture, Athos' drowning their pain in alcohol until they pass out. The guilt is better than hearing Aramis' voice – _ángel_ , a whisper that haunts faer dreams, making faer wake up in cold sweat, crying – and knowing that he's dead.

D'Artagnan bites the insides of faer cheek to stop faerself from bursting out in tears. Athos looks at faer with raised eyebrows: "You ok?" Their whisper sounds stone-cold sober, but d'Artagnan knows that they are drunk. Again. Still. Fae can't remember and it probably doesn't matter either way, so fae just shrugs. Athos nods curtly. They have been avoiding touch and eye contact since they met again at Treville's safe house, like they blame fae but can't bring themselves to actually say so. And so there's mostly silence. And loneliness. Fae is an outcast in faer own home now. Everyone keeps avoiding faer, at all times, and it's not like fae can hold it against them. Not after… not after everything.

It's Treville's turn to say a few words and d'Artagnan can see the tension in his face, around the corners of his mouth, making him look like he's aged decades in just a few weeks. The start of his rapid aging being the day of the reunion. Without Aramis. Because it's happened days after he was dead, days in which d'Artagnan had tried to contact the rest of the team, silently begging for a miracle, so they could at least retrieve his _body_ , but of course the miracle never came. Fae's been alone during the wait, playing the fatal incident over and over in faer mind, until fae was sure fae would spiral into madness. The sound of faer own dry sobbing's been faer only company, until Treville had shown up. He didn't make things better. In fact, he made them worse. The accusation unspoken and yet overwhelming in the way he looks at faer. Vivid, burning. Treville can't even hide it now, standing in front of the small group, talking, _looking_ at faer. His voice doesn't reach faer brain, it's washed out and meaningless, but the look. It kills d'Artagnan. It feels like a dream. But it's a nightmare that fae can't wake up from. Losing Aramis is making faer wish to be dead in his place, but fae doesn't dare tell the others, because haven't they been even more impacted by his death than faerself? Selfish. A selfish fucking murderer, that's all fae is.

 _I'm sorry._

D'Artagnan is losing track of time, too caught up in faer own mind to follow the ceremony, too stunned by the impact of Aramis' loss to even care, so that when fae snaps back into reality, they lower Aramis' coffin into the grave. Fae watches at the polished wooden box – empty, _empty_ – disappears in the ground. The priest says something and throws earth into the hole. Porthos' cracks, shaking helplessly, and Milady lets go of his hand, turning around and leaving the cemetery without another word.

* * *

D'Artagnan stares at the ceiling. It's dark in faer room, dark and lonely. The funeral's been over for hours, and eventually they all have come home. Well, except for Athos. They have decided to sleep in the bureau. Again. It's a code for getting drunk and becoming numb, for being too wasted to dream – or at least too wasted to remember these dreams. They don't talk to d'Artagnan much anymore, they just silently exist in the same space. And not even that. Not lately. Fae knows, knows without a doubt, that fae is losing Athos. Day after day, night after night, drink after drink. They are drifting apart, slowly, but inevitably. And there is nothing d'Artagnan can do about it. Fae knows that, too. And it kills faer inside.

Outside, the clicking of heels on the floor passes by his door. Milady. Going out past midnight? D'Artagnan gets up, deliberately not touching Athos' side of the bed, and hurries to the door. Fae was right, it is Milady, who has changed the black funeral dress for plain black jeans and a black turtleneck pullover.

"Lady…?"

"Shh. You will wake Porthos," she says quietly. Her eyes are dark and tired, and she puts her keys on the shelf – why, why would she leave without her keys? -, before she folds her hands in front of her body. "Is Athos around, too?"

"No, they are still at work- but what are you _doing_?"

"Isn't it obvious?" A smile flickers over her face and it's nothing but pain and sadness, the ghost of a smile really. "I can't-" Milady's breath catches in her chest, her fingers trembling. "I can't stay. So I'm leaving."

 _No no no no no. No. Please. No. No no no._ D'Artagnan makes faerself not scream at her, forcing faer voice down to a low whisper, and asks weakly: "For how long?"

"For good. My decision is final."

"But-"

"No. Whatever you want to say, just don't. I don't want to hear it. I can't."

"You can't leave Porthos. It will kill him." _It will kill me._ D'Artagnan's heart beats so hard fae fears it might actually explode through faer rib cage, explode into a million bloody pieces of torn flesh and ripped muscle and broken bones. "Please don't do this. I'm begging you."

"I have no choice."

Panic and dread fill faer body, as fae tries to work out something to say. Something that will make Milady reconsider her decision. And suddenly, the shadow of a memory crosses faer mind, and fae whispers: "What about the baby?"

Milady's face is a mask, hard and blank. "There won't be a baby. Not when it could be his. I wouldn't- I couldn't survive that." She shakes her head, ever so lightly. "Porthos wouldn't understand. He would hate me. And I'd rather he hates me for abandoning him, not for killing his or our dead partner's child." Her voice breaks off, and d'Artagnan pretends not to notice, because her mask breaks and she fights so hard against it.

"Porthos loves you. No matter what you decide to do with your body. He loves you. He will always love you."

"You know nothing," Milady hisses, suddenly sharp and angry and alive with disgust. "And I'm not going to listen to your shit any longer."

"Milady, please-"

"You killed him, d'Artagnan. This is on you. Everything. You wanted someone to spell it out, didn't you? I'll do it: I blame you. I blame you for Aramis' death. And there is nothing you can do to make amends. I will _never_ forgive you. And if Porthos and Athos are weak enough to give in, to forgive you one day, know that I won't. Not in this life. Not _ever_." Milady is shaking and tears slip over her cheek, but her voice is calm now, composed, final. "Goodbye, d'Artagnan. We won't meet again."

She turns around in one fluid movement, grabs her coat, and leaves. She doesn't bang the door in anger, she closes it quietly, carefully, for the last time. D'Artagnan can only stare. Stare and stare and stare. Faer body remembers to breathe, to sit down, to breathe, breathe, but fae doesn't exist anymore. Physically, maybe. Fae can't tell. But Milady shattered something and it's lost forever.

She's right, though. And now half of his family is dead or gone, and the other half will follow soon. It's all faer fault.

D'Artagnan starts to cry.

* * *

When Porthos finds Milady gone he does not cry. He does not scream. He does not break things. He does not go after her. No, when Porthos finds that Milady is gone he holds her farewell letter between powerless fingers ( _I don't love you enough to stay. It's for the better. I'm sorry._ ) and sits down on the edge of the bed he used to share with his lovers. Who both abandoned him, both in their own way.

And then, Porthos becomes invisible.

 _Snap_. Just like that.

* * *

"D'Artagnan!" Athos doesn't quite yell, but they're close, something urgent and worried in their voice. It takes d'Artagnan by surprise – Athos doesn't talk to faer, Athos doesn't _call_ faer -, and faer first impulse is to run and not return.

 _D'Artagnan, now!_ Again. Fae gets up, trying not to shake, trying to sober faer head, while horror scenarios flood faer mind, each more hideous and cruel than the other. With Aramis dead, Milady gone, and Porthos barely existing there can't be anything good happen. Maybe Porthos killed himself. The thought turns d'Artagnan's stomach, as he enters the bathroom.

Athos is pressing a towel – a _bloody_ towel – to Porthos chest, holding him in an upright position, cursing under their breath. There's a razor, blood-stained like the towel, in the sink, the white of the bath tub is spattered with red spots and… flaps of _skin_. D'Artagnan covers faer mouth with a hand because the gagging reflex forces acid into faer mouth.

"Take over. Don't let him lie down. I'll fetch the emergency kit and call an ambulance."

"No. I'm fine. Just… shaving," Porthos says softly, eyes unfocused and tired. "Don't call anyone. Please."

"Shit." Athos looks torn, shaking their head, and muttering something into their beard. "D'Art, please?"

Fae hurries to nod, changing places with Athos (the towel is warm and wet from Porthos' blood and faer heart skips a beat) and watching them leave with long steps. "Hey," fae says gently, but Porthos doesn't react. Now fae smells the alcohol. And it's not Athos who's been drinking. "What have you done…?"

"Shaving."

"Did you try to…?"

Porthos smiles and it's a smile of exhaustion and doom and pain. "No. I wouldn't do that to you." He removes faer fingers from the towel, and lifts it. There's a literal hole in his chest, a plane of raw flesh, bloody, bleeding, right above his heart. "I couldn't keep them."

Now d'Artagnan realizes, it's like a kick in the back, and the tears come too fast to hide them. Porthos cut them away. The tattoos of their names. Aramis and Milady are gone, gone from his life, gone from his _body_. Fae covers his chest with the towel again, because fae doesn't know what else to do, and the tears are hot all over his face. Porthos rests his head against faer shoulder now, and fae whispers: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It hurts. It hurts so much, d'Artagnan, I can't bear it anymore."

They both know he isn't talking about the wound.

* * *

Samara is a small woman, gentle yet fierce, but right now her eyes are furious and she seems like a giant as she looks at Porthos, who avoids meeting her gaze. "This, brother, is a _sepsis_. It can end deadly, just in case you forgot." She touches his brow. "What were you thinking?"

"I'm fine," Porthos says, "I told them not to call you. I'm sorry you're worried now."

"Oh, so you'd prefer me not to be worried now but to mourn your death later? How considerate, thank you." An eye roll. "D'Artagnan, get me my other bag, please."

"Of course." Fae leaves the room, passing Athos who's waiting outside, looking serious and absent, and grabs Samara's bag. It's heavy.

"We should've called her earlier," is all Athos says before they turn and go into their room. D'Artagnan hears low voices from Porthos' room, so fae decides to check up on Athos first. If they let faer, that is. Fae knocks softly on the door. Athos doesn't answer. The sting of rejection hurts, but it's familiar. D'Artagnan closes faer eyes for a moment.

Suddenly Porthos raises his voice: "I don't care, Samara, I don't care if I die, I don't _fucking_ care, do you understand? I don't care, so just _leave_. Let me die. Let me fucking die, so I can be with Aramis. Just. Let me die."

The drop of the bag falling to the floor interrupts the silence that follows. D'Artagnan presses both hands to faer mouth, shaking violently, faer eyes filled with tears. _Let me die_. Faer heart races, races, races, blood pulsing through faer ears. Then Porthos' sobs become audible, underlined with Samara's voice gently speaking in Arabic.

D'Artagnan can't breathe, not anymore, not after this, because it will never end, it will never be okay again, nothing will ever be okay, and fae lets faer body sink to the floor. _Let me die_. The door opens, slowly, and then Athos sits down beneath d'Artagnan, carefully touching faer hair.

"I love you," they say softly.

* * *

The TV screen flickers, shedding light on the couch. Porthos has an arm loosely wrapped around d'Artagnan, not quite paying attention to the movie.

It's been a long process to see Porthos starting to heal. But with the blood poisoning gone, the wound beginning to scar, and him not reading Milady's note or visiting Aramis' grave daily, it's become better. Sometimes Porthos smiles, he even laughs like he used to. And he cries. Finally.

Since Porthos seems to get better, Athos does too. They still drink, but they drink less. More controlled. Not in secret.

D'Artagnan still feels like there's a gaping hole in faer chest, but fae does a better job of hiding it. For them, not for faerself. It's the least fae can do.

"Can I tell you something?", Porthos asks, without taking his eyes off of the screen. An ice-cold hand wraps itself around d'Artagnan's heart, but fae nods anyway. "I'm glad you're here. I don't know what I would've done without you. I should've told you earlier, but I didn't know how. I… Thank you. Truly, thank you."

D'Artagnan doesn't reply, wants to protest, to cry, to run away, to escape this _kindness_ , because fae doesn't deserve any of it, but fae can't move. And then, suddenly, fae turns around and kisses Porthos. Desperate affection digs in faer chest, burning, biting, moving, and then it clicks – fae is kissing _Porthos_ \- and fae pulls away abruptly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-", d'Artagnan whispers breathlessly. "- I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry."

Porthos smiles in reply, small and private and _happy_ , and takes faer hand, kissing faer knuckles.

As they start kissing, mutually this time, they become visible again.


	3. I Love How You Play Along

No new chapter warnings. Please enjoy!

* * *

THREE

… _I love how you play along with my bad ideas_

Athos sits alone in their big office chair, tie loose, fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk, coffee left unattended and now cold. They skim through seemingly endless pages of reports, some of which are marked red (red = super _super_ important, compared to the other ones that are only super important), but they can't rely on someone else's judgment, not even Treville's, so they do the reading themself. It doubles the effort, but it's better than missing something vital. Again. Athos sighs. Maybe they have a problem with letting go of responsibilty and trusting others. Especially after what happened. But this? This is better than doing nothing. Or drinking. Or thinking too much. And _then_ drinking.

It's been almost six month since Aramis' death – _Aramis' death_ , not an immediate flare of pain, but a familiar dull aching - and it's been months during which they hadn't accepted any new clients. Not that they could have done it, without Aramis and Milady, but Athos has been thinking that they should get back to work. To something like a daily schedule. Creating normalcy and everyday-life seems like the next logical step, right? Even if it's just pretense. Athos is good at pretense, they can handle pretense, they've been doing it for the better part of their life. Pretense is the lesser evil.

And so they they get up at 7am, they wear their suit and tie, they go to their office from 9-5 during working days, and keep themself busy with... reports. Checking out possible clients they can help with a team of just three. Safe missions. Untriggering missions. Local missions. Missions that are important but not urgent. Athos keeps a list of names, ready to present to d'Artagnan and Porthos when the time feels right, _if_ it ever feels right, because they will have to get back there eventually. Finances only last so long. Even with their private capital, it's... not looking too bright. Not that they would bother d'Art and Porthos with that, but eventually they will have to tell them. But not now, not when things are seem to get better.

There's a soft knock on the door, and Athos stops reading, adjusting their tie, straightening their back, and calls: "Come in."

D'Artagnan's head appears between the door and the door post, peeking into the bureau, like fae isn't sure whether or not to really come in. Their relationship is... strained, still, but they're both trying, at least Athos thinks they are, so they wave faer in.

"Mind if I come in too...?" It's Porthos' voice, from behind d'Artagnan, and the irritation of them acting so formally passes through the back of Athos' mind without them consciously noticing.

"Please, do come in. Both of you," they say. "Something I can assist you with?" _Something wrong?_ , a small voice whispers.

"No, it's... can we talk?" D'Artagnan looks guilty, but it's not the same kind of guilt fae's shown in the past months. It's not the guilt of killing Aramis – _you did not, you did not kill him_ , Athos wants to tell faer, over and over again, _it's not your fault, we don't blame you, you must believe me_ -, it's the guilt of a young person who did something they think they were not supposed to. Athos knows this kind of guilt, too.

"Of course. Let's talk."

Porthos steps forward, with less hesitation than d'Artagnan, and sits down. Fae follows, frowning unconsciously. Warm adoration fills Athos' chest at the sight, it's such a d'Artagnan thing to do, something that didn't change. But that's besides the point, they know, because as they are both sitting down opposite of Athos their eyes are serious.

"Okay, before d'Artagnan says anything, I just want to clarify that it was my-"

"Porthos, please, you don't need to-"

"But I _know_ you didn't-"

"That doesn't matter-"

Athos clears their throat and d'Artagnan and Porthos fall silent. Blaming the thumping of their heart on anything but the anxiety building up in the pit of their stomach, they raise an eyebrow and try a one-sided smile. "I take it, you want to tell me something?" And maybe this is it. Maybe they've finally come to the conclusion that it was, in fact, _Athos_ who got Aramis killed, and decided to leave them. They know it doesn'tmake sense, not completely, but what else could this be about?

"I kissed him." D'Artagnan.

"We kissed." Porthos.

Simultaneously.

D'Artagnan and Porthos look at each other, and then at Athos. Who is feeling kind of lost, as they reply: "I'm sorry, but I believe I'm not quite following." _You didn't decide you're better off without me?_

"I kissed Porthos. I didn't mean to, not at first, but then I did it again and- I'm sorry, Athos, I don't know why I did it, it just happened. I'm. I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you with this."

Athos nods, because they don't know what else to do. It's an absurd thing to confess. _Absurd_.

"It's my fault," Porthos says firmly. "I was not thinking. You two are – and I'm not. I'm not a part of that. I didn't mean to interfere. It won't happen again. I'm sorry, Athos."

"Please don't hate me." D'Artagnan's voice is barely a whisper, and fae doesn't make eye contact, instead staring at faer hands.

Athos follows the impulse to get up – anxiety melting into relief, the tension leaving their body -, and cautiously takes d'Artagnan's face into their hands, until fae looks up. "Listen. I love you. You kissing Porthos doesn't change that." They glance at Porthos, who looks nervous, and hurry to add: "I'm not angry at either of you. I'm your partner as long as you'll have me, d'Artagnan, and if you want to be intimate with other people... I don't mind."

"Just like that? You sure you don't want to punch me?", Porthos asks with raised brows, and it's supposed to be a joke, of course it is, but there's something off in his voice. Something vulnerable.

"I'm sure. I also wouldn't want you to let me win just because you feel guilty."

"Athos is right, that's something you'd do."

"Shut up, that's because I'm honorable." Porthos laughs now, freely, and d'Artagnan smiles and squeezes Athos' hand, and Athos returns the squeeze, joining faer smile, because _they are not leaving_ and Porthos is _laughing_.

"Well, now that you've told me about your newly found kissing-compatibilty," Athos says in a gentle voice, hyper aware to make it clear to d'Art that they're ok with it, "I have to tell you something too. Actually, it's more of a proposition, if you will hear me out..."

* * *

They move into one of Athos' family's empty houses. It's smaller than their old home, but it's still spacious enough that they are not in each others' faces all the time, and, which was the finalizing factor, it's within their budget.

Porthos had asked for an extra room for Aramis' and Milady's things, looking concerned, as if them moving meant leaving all their things and all their shared memories behind too, which sent Athos into a short panic, because _obviously_ he'd think that, but the thought hasn't even occured to themself. So they provided a room, light-flooded and overlooking the garden, not the basement or the attic, and made sure that their things were moved there first thing the next morning. With Milady leaving literally everything behind, and there still being all of Aramis' personal things (since he had no family left who'd pick them up), the room is stuffed and seems... alive. Like both of them are still there, somehow. And after some time it becomes one of the most frequently used rooms, whether they stay in it together or by themselves.

Athos drinks less. Tries to drink less, at least. They refuse to go to rehab – again -, because they don't want to destroy the fragile balance that they've established by being absent and worrying them. It's going pretty well, given the fact that they are a stubborn bastard (as Treville likes to put it). The situation is... managable, yes. Sometimes they still get so wasted that they pass out for 9 hours straight, but it's the exception, not the rule.

D'Artagnan and themself share a room, Porthos has his own. He does stay overnight with them at times, though. Athos still doesn't mind, wouldn't ever mind, and one day Porthos pulls them into an embrace and tells them that he loves them. As far as Athos is concerned, they're three now. They belong together.

And while they take on small jobs as a group again, carefully chosen ones, Athos continues their long-term project, doing research, checking maps, marking articles, following the tiny paper-trail that Milady left after her disappearance. She doesn't want to be found, which makes things harder, but not impossible.

Not for Athos, anyway.

* * *

"I think. I think I found her," Athos tells d'Artagnan one night, as they are in the bath, getting ready for bed. "Milady."

D'Artagnan flinches like fae's been physically impacted, like someone's punched faer into the face, and unconsciously takes a step back. Averts faer gaze. Fae's never told Athos what Milady said the night she'd left, but it haunts d'Artagnan, Athos knows that, following faer around like a shadow. It hurts to witness it, but there's nothing they can do about it, not really.

"Where?", d'Artagnan finally asks, leaving the _how_ unspoken.

"Argentina. I'm not a hundred percent certain it's her, but my sources strongly indicate so. I'd have to go there to be sure." And this is the point, Athos has to leave if they want to find Milady, but they neither know if it's a good idea to follow her or if the plan itself is even realizable under the circumstances.

"So you'll leave." Not the trace of a question. "When?"

"I don't know. I honestly don't know if I should go in first place."

D'Artagnan looks at them through the mirror, shrugging helplessly. "Either way, you have to tell Porthos. That you found- that you found her, I mean." Milady's name not passing faer lips. It's not happened since her departure, but Athos doesn't tell faer that they noticed.

"I'm not sure it's a good idea to tell him," they say, eventually, because they've been thinking about that since they figured out Milady's most possible whereabouts.

"We can't lie to him." As they don't reply immediately, fae looks alarmed. "We _can't_ , Athos, you know what lying does to him. However bad he takes the news, a lie would be worse. He'd never trust us again."

"I know, sweetheart," Athos sighs. "And rightly so. It's just that I'd rather not expose him to something that could hurt him." _Again_.

Suddenly d'Artagnan's expression changes to something Athos can't read. Fae comes closer to them again, eyes bright with... an emotion Athos isn't able to interpret, but it's fierce and intense and determined. "I know you just want to protect him. I know you want to protect me, too. But that's not your job. Your job is to take care of yourself first. And you've not been doing that. At all." Fae breathes out, shakily, and continues in a smaller voice: "Tell Porthos. Go to Argentina. Find her. But when you come back... go to rehab. Please. _Please_ , Athos. Put yourself first, at least for some time."

They don't know what to say, so they just nod, struck speechless.

"Thank you," d'Artagnan says softly. "I love you."

Fae leaves the bathroom, but not before kissing them gently on the corner of their mouth. Athos is left behind with mixed feelings, but mostly – positive ones? Well, this went differently than expected.

* * *

Porthos had reacted better than either of them had imagined (he was hurt, yes, yet repeatedly emphasizing that he was grateful for their honesty, but not interested in Athos' further findings regarding Milady), and they'd all silently agreed that Athos should go alone. Which they did. Athos had taken the next flight to Buenos Aires; the flight back was already booked, scheduled for two days after their arrival in the city, so that they had a limited time frame and wasn't tempted to get lost in their search.

The city is huge and overflowing with life, and it wouldn't have been possible to find Milady without some sort of lead; but Athos came there with a street name and the task to mend things, which gave them a vague direction (they like to pretend they didn't do it because of the small, impossible hope of actually being lucky and finding her, but it played it a role in their decision not to give up after the fruitless first 12 hour-search).

It's pretty early in the morning when Athos spots a woman in a white dress that's embroidered with delicate floral motifs, wearing sunglasses and an oversized hat, under which fair hair peeks out, sitting in a café on the street. The resemblance to Milady's wedding look, a vivid memory from what seems a lifetime ago, makes Athos' heart jump and their mind race.

 _Please let it be her, please let it be her, dear God, I beg you, let it be her_...

"May I?", they ask, the pounding of their pulse too loud in their own ears, and the woman looks up, and Athos' is screaming her name on the inside, because it's her, it's _actually_ her, and they can't believe it, it's- almost too much.

"Sit, if you must," Milady replies in an even voice, watching Athos from under her sunglasses. "Before you say anything, tell me how you found me."

This they can do, this is rational, not about them, not about what could happen after, because they didn't let themself think about actually finding her before, not about what it would mean. So Athos smiles softly, hiding their trembling hands under the desk. "I knew you'd need an ID and money to get away, and since you left everything, the first step was creating a new identity and secure starting capital. I also knew you wouldn't want to draw attention, so I ignored your diversions – which were brilliantly staged, though – and followed the most insignificant looking trail. You almost had me convinced that it wasn't you, that I was wrong, but then there was activity in the small town you went to with- and I _knew_ it had to be you, so I kept following. Until the track ended here. One of Treville's contacts gave me an address. I started there. Now I'm here."

"You shouldn't be. It was a bad idea." She doesn't sound quite convincing. Milady takes off her sunglasses, now, and meets their gaze. She looks thinner than before she left, tired, exhausted. Bitter. "I had a moment of weakness and gave in to sentimentality. Trust me when I say that it won't happen again."

"It doesn't matter."

"Is that so?"

"I promised you, once, that we would always find each other. I stand by it."

"Reciting wedding vows now? Ever the romantic." She smiles, wearily. "What do you want, Athos?"

"I always liked your hair in blond."

"Athos."

"I miss you."

Milady shakes her head, the hat overshadowing half of her faces. "What do you _want_?"

"I want you to come home." Before she can protest or snort or get up and leave, they add: "But I know that's not realistic. So I just want to make sure... that you know that you can come home. If you ever want to." They take out a key (to the new house), a small notebook (containing their new address, new cell numbers, new email), and her ID and passport, both of which she'd left behind.

Milady doesn't touch either, taking a sip of her coffee. "Mind if I smoke?"

"No."

She lights her cigarette, watching Athos intently. After a while she points at him with a movement of her head, raising an eyebrow. "Your hands are shaking, you're pale and sweaty. Are you _really_ on cold withdrawal, in a foreign country that you don't even speak the language of?"

"I can take care of myself." _And I know you hate it when I drink._

"I see..." She exhales the smoke through her nose. "You know, I've been thinking a lot about us lately. Sometimes I wonder if it could have ended happily, if things had been different."

The saliva in Athos' mouth turns sour, because they'd tried, they'd tried to be married, they'd tried very hard to be a man who enjoys romantic and sexual relationships, not primarily for Milady, but for their family, their family name, their reputation. But it had never felt right (and they didn't understand it themself, not until they learned that being genderqueer and aro ace were a thing). The urge to apologize anyway – for _everything_ \- burns on their tongue.

"Sorry. I didn't. Forget I said this, please."

"It's okay," Athos lies.

Milady looks torn, shifting slightly in her chair. They know she wants to ask about Porthos and d'Artagnan, but they also know that she's too proud (and too scared) to ask. And so Athos provides the information unprompted: "They're fine. Or getting there. You don't need to worry, I'm taking care of them." They hesitate. "I told Porthos that I was going to look for you..."

"And he said that he doesn't care. Don't look at me like I just kicked you, I know him. And it's a clever decision, if you ask me, he's better off moving on." She's lashing out passive-aggressively, and it's something Athos is familiar with, that they know how to handle. It's comforting, somehow. Athos doesn't tell her about the triangle situation back home, just: "We miss you. That won't change, no matter what you say or do."

Milady's mouth twitches. "I won't come home. I'm not-" She puts out the cigarette with more force than necessary. "I'll have revenge for Aramis. I owe him that. I'll probably get killed, but since I'm the only one even _remotely_ interested in finishing this, I'll risk it."

"Revenge won't make you feel better."

"Don't tell me what will make me feel better, especially when talking to you makes me feel _worse_." Her voice is acid.

"I'll take my leave then. You can come home any time, you're welcome, always. But I respect your wishes. I will let you go, for good, if that's what you really want." Athos gets up, carefully touching the back of her hand before moving the things he brought closer to her. "Please be safe. We love you."

They don't want to see what she does, they _can't_ know, not for certain, not if this was their last goodbye, and hurry to disappear in the crowd. If somebody notices Athos crying, they don't comment on it.


	4. But When It's All Said And Done

Somehow Milady/Marguerite snuck into this. Also, Treville's first name is now Jean. Please enjoy!  
 **Chapter warnings** : Torture, violence, (off-page) character death, angst, discussion of alcoholism.

* * *

F O U R

… _But when it's all said and done I'd rather surrender to you in other ways_

"I advise you to let me go _right now_ ," the man – hands and feet bound to a chair, blood trickling from his temple, lips split, veins standing out like thick cords on his neck, pulsating just a _tick_ too fast – hisses, "or I will have you tortured to death." He tries not to sound afraid, but his eyes, his pale blue killer's eyes, give him away. Milady touches his dirty blond hair, the pads of her fingers prickling with tension. She gives him a cutting smile; the urge to rip, hit, choke, scratch, hurt, _kill_ builds up inside her, letting her blood run cold and hot in quick changes, but she reigns it in. For now.

Dying light is seeping into the hotel room, through the sheer curtains, and floods the exquisite white marble floor with glowing shades of yellow and orange and red. It's almost as impressive a sight as the canopy bed that dominates the room. Whatever Rochefort had thought was going to happen here, it sure wasn't him being strapped to a chair (in such an _unsexy_ way, tsk), at her mercy. _Mercy_. There is no mercy in her anymore, only hatred. And he is to find out soon. First-hand.

Luring Rochefort here had been easy, almost too easy. A pleasant smile going with a pleasant face and body – she'd made sure she was his type, blond and pure-looking, a _damsel_ \- and he'd been oh so willing to follow her. He'd even paid for the room, ironically, not knowing that he wouldn't leave it alive. She doesn't think that he knows, even now. But he's not the first one to have underestimated her. He won't be the last.

"Listen, you little bitch, if you-"

Milady clicks with her tongue, cold laughter bubbling somewhere in the back of her throat, and strikes him across the face. Hard. He flinches, pain visible in his features, clenching his teeth, and something inside Milady feels sated. Something else craves more, _more_.

"Here's the deal, Rochefort," she says calmly, as a calmly as the need to punish him allows her, "I will give you a swift death, if you give up your employer. If you don't... well, let's say you inspired me and I will torture you to death." The smile gracing her face is acid.

"You have no idea who you're talking to, do you?" Licking his bloody lips, he smiles, and looks at her, suddenly not irritated anymore. The way his fear is overshadowed by smugness makes Milady want to kick him, crush him like the vermin he is, squeeze his throat until the self-satisfaction fades into deadness. Until his eyes are broken. Unseeing. She wants to tell him that she _knows_ who he is, that she _knows_ that he'd murdered Aramis on that godforsaken ship, that he'd sent Marguerite, that it'd been his game, his set-up all along, but that she also _knows_ that he's the blade and not the brain. She _knows_.

Milady steps closer, so close that their faces almost touch. She feels his breath, smells it, and something in her chest twitches, falls into place. With a low voice she says: "I don't care who you are, Rochefort. I know _what_ you are. I know what you did to get into this position. I know what you _do_ to keep it." Briefly, Marguerite's desperate face flashes through her mind. "It will be my pleasure to kill you."

"You won't kill me."

Milady laughs, it's loud and careless, and it scares herself in its rawness. "You are dead, Rochefort. You might as well accept it now, and it make it easier for yourself. I'll even let you choose: A single bullet or a clean cut. Whichever you prefer. But first... tell me. Who ordered you to set up my team?" _Who will pay next?_

Rochefort snorts. "Ask your _Captain_."

She hits him, then, not thinking twice about it. He laughs. Of course he'd use this tactic, of course he'd try to distract her that way. She won't be diverted. She will find out who did it and she will kill them. There's no other option.

"Who are they?" And when he doesn't answer, she repeats: "Who?"

"Let me go and I will deliver a message."

"Your dead body will be message enough."

"I'm no use to you when I'm dead. Let me go, and you will find answers. Kill me and you're dead next."

Milady's smile is sharp: "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm merely negotiating."

"You are in no position to negotiate."

"And you're in none to make me a traitor. A perfect stalemate, we have here."

Milady turns around, feeling her hair sweep around her shoulders, and picks up her purse. What looks like a spectacles case contains a lightweight knife with a thin blade. Silent, unexpected, deadly. But not today. Dawn's breaking, time flows slowly now, the beat of her heart setting the pace. It's not rushed, it's steady and determined. The soles of her bare feet connect with the marble and she feels more down-to-earth than she has in months. This is it, then.

"I want you to know what it feels like," she tells Rochefort as she takes off her silk scarf – it's as weightless as the knife, fluid and airy at the same time -, and gags him. The thought of cutting his vocal chords has crossed her mind, but she doesn't want to take the risk to cause a wound that would kill him quicker than she intended. They won't hear him anyway. Nobody will hear in time.

 _He bled. To... to death. I think that's- He was bleeding out_. D'Artagnan's voice, small and numb and breaking, faer eyes distant and lifeless. Porthos' devastated sobs. Athos' dead silence. Her heart turning into an infinite abyss.

"Have you ever wondered," she asks, "how long it takes to die from blood loss?" The tip of her knife dances down Rochefort's throat ever so lightly. "I'm not talking about slitting a main artery, though. You've lost that chance. I'm talking about... something that requires more impact."

Rochefort is struggling against the bonds. There's panic in his eyes – _finally_ -, and this is everything she wished for. She wants him to suffer. She wants him to know that he'll bleed out and that there's nothing he can do to fight off his fate. She wants him to die alone, in the setting sun, in an impersonal hotel room. She wants him to feel what Aramis felt. What she's felt since his death.

Revenge screams in her head.

Stabbing Rochefort in the gut – twice, maybe hitting the liver, maybe not, it doesn't matter, he will _suffer_ and die – calms the blazing hatred. The blade goes through his flesh easily, hot blood soaking his shirt, and he makes a noise of pain in the back of his throat. His eyes, swimming in unshed tears, accuse her of being cruel.

Her hands shake, yet her voice doesn't: "I will find your employer and I will destroy them. Isn't it comforting to know that your master will be reunited with you soon? Because it's the only comfort I can offer you, _pet_."

Rochefort's breathing is heavy, pained, and he looks at her like he wants to tear her apart with his bare hands. She takes it in, the sight of him dying in front of her, feeding the greedy abyss in her chest, before she proceeds to collect her things as if she has all the time in the world. She does, somehow. The room's rented for another 12 hours.

Milady walks out, putting on her sunglasses, hiding her face under the oversized hat, carrying her shoes and her purse in her hand. The door clicks shut. She leaves a last present for Rochefort, puts it carefully and with cool satisfaction on the doorhandle: ' _Please do not disturb._ '

* * *

Marguerite's body is warm, her touch soft, and her lips trace the shape of her neck. She whispers: "I'm glad you're alive and he's dead." And if her voice is any indicator, she's weeping. Tears that Milady doesn't have in her. After the rush of adrenaline and satisfaction... she's empty. She's so _empty_. But she lets herself fall into Marguerite's embrace, trying to push away Rochefort's allegations, trying to not doubt Treville's involvement – and failing.

Rochefort is – _was_ \- a puppet. There has to be a puppeteer. And if Treville's the key... so be it. She owes it to Aramis – to Porthos, d'Artagnan, Athos, _herself_ – to find the truth.

It's too late to stop now.

* * *

She cut her hair short and dyed it back to a dark brown with Marguerite's help. Not that she'd needed help, but it was... nice. Like they got closure. Marguerite sparked something inside her that she'd thought dead, and wasn't that ironic after she'd initially sought her out to kill her for baiting them with the ship mission? Who she found was not a culprit, nobody who deserved death by her hands, but a companion. A lover. An almost-friend.

Marguerite who'd she told ' _tu me manques_ ' and meant it. But she can't stay, restlessness keeps her awake at night and memories drive her to do something. To act. To move on. To _leave_.

And so she does.

As a parting gift, Marguerite gives her a golden cross on a golden necklace. An overloaded, ugly thing, an insult to the eye, honestly. Milady can't breathe, she thinks she'd cry, but she can't. It is Aramis' cross, the one he always gave to clients. ' _For credibility'_ , he'd say with a wink, but what it actually meant was ' _for faith, I promise you we will be back'_.

Aramis' cross. His promise. She has it back.

After that, there are no words left. She kisses Marguerite, one last time, and takes a taxi to the airport.

Now she waits for her flight. She travels with hand luggage only, and somwhere in the depths of her bag are the things Athos left her. The temptation to go back... _no_.

Milady breathes in pointedly, closes her eyes, and sends the ghosts away. She doesn't miss home. She's her own home, she doesn't need anybody else, never has, because solitude is her second nature. _This isn't solitude_ , a treacherous voice whispers, _this is loneliness_ …

She picks at the skin of her thumb, angry at herself. So what if she's lonely? It will pass. It has always passed.

* * *

Treville's private home is on the town's edge, close enough to the city core to be convenient, far enough from it to live in 'peace and quiet', as he puts it himself. It's small and ordinary, the perfect place to pretend to be a lawful citizen. As if.

There is no obvious alarm as Milady trespasses and enters the house. The smell of freshly ground coffee fills the air. Coffee's for Treville what expensive liquor is for other people. What alcohol of any kind used to be for Athos. They're both prone to addiction, it must run in the family. Maybe it's better that she never had a child with Athos. Maybe it's better that she never had a child, period. Who knows what would've become of it. A criminal like her, like Porthos - or Aramis. She pushes the thought away, violently, and follows the blurred noise of either a TV or a radio.

The infamous Gentleman Thief (named so by the media that loved him and still does, even after his alleged retirement), called The Puppeteer by both colleagues and rivals, code-named Captain (by his team and his team _only_ , which is a permanent sting in her chest), sits on the sofa and watches TV. It's a match-making show, something trivial Treville enjoys above everything else, but as he hears her, he turns it off.

"Milady."

"Jean."

He gets up, leaning visibly on his cane – made from dark wood, the handle silvery in the shape of a horse's head that could be pulled out and reveal a stiletto -, and his stance matches his gentleman persona. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deepen as he smiles. It's warm and seems honest.

"I'm happy you're back. How have you been faring in Argentina?"

"I'm not in the mood to exchange pleasantries."

"I see. Can I offer you something?"

"Actually, you can. Offer me the truth." Milady tries not to sound too accusing, too hurt, as she continues: "Why did Aramis' killer tell me to ask _you_ about his employer?"

Her question seems to catch him by surprise – and it's either a perfect display of his acting skills or it's a genuine reaction, she can't tell -, and his face falls, darkens, shuts her out. His voice is even, when he speaks: "Are you implying that I worked against you to... get you all killed?"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm asking. _Politely_."

"And I have to tell you, _politely_ , that I don't know what you're talking about. Who told you this nonsense, in first place?"

"A certain Rochefort. I caught him. I asked about his employer. He told me to ask, and I quote, _my Captain_. How does he know of your code-name? I thought." Her throat is tight. "Didn't only we know? Who else did you tell?"

"Milady..." Treville looks shocked, and like he's disappointed or angry. Or both. _Hah_ , if anyone has the right to be angry, it's her. Not him. "You have to tell me what you did."

"What did _you_ do?"

"This is serious! Stop playing games and tell me what you _did_. Do I look like I'm joking?"

Milady's heart beats too fast and fury makes her blood boil, and she comes closer to Treville. "How dare you treat me like a child who's behaved badly? Aramis is dead. You don't care. _None_ of you cared. So I took matters into my own hands, and _I_ found his killer. I let Rochefort bleed out in a hotel room and I'll do the same to _anyone_ who was involved." Her chest hurts, it _hurts_. "And if you're involved, Jean, so God help you for I will kill you too."

"Anne-"

"Don't call me that. _Don't_ . You might've been my father-in-law, I might've admired you, but if you betrayed us, if you..." _If you got Aramis killed._ "There's nothing in the world that can stop me from killing you. And if it's the last thing I do."

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "You're out of your mind. You should take your leave. Please, go."

"Don't worry, I won't stay. But I will know the truth. I _will_ ." Fighting back tears, she turns around, and rushes out of the house. _And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free,_ says a voice that sounds like Aramis'. His cross weighs heavy on her skin.

She cries.

* * *

Call it sentimentality, desperation, hell, call it _habit_ , but Milady finds Athos in rehab a few days later. She slips in through one of the back entrances (they're secured, but not well enough for someone like her), not drawing attention, looking for Athos among the strange faces.

She is exhausted, sad, unbearably sad, and too scared to go back to Porthos and d'Artagnan on her own. She's also scared of Treville. Of what he'll do, now that she pointed her finger at him and straight-up told him that she'd kill him if need be. This is what a hunted animal must feel like. She feels so helpless that she can't put it into words. And she hates it.

When she spots Athos, they are sitting in a circle with other people, looking at a fixed point at the wall, talking calmly. Milady knows it's their last day – the last of fourty in total -, and she feels like an intruder, but she also can't not listen to them.

"I came here because my partner asked me to. It was the right choice, I was spiralling down into... a mess. Again. I didn't want help, at first, but I was in dire need of it. My best friend... He died. I didn't cope. I've been dry for five years before it happened. My ex wife, she was the reason I went to rehab the first time. I didn't want to throw it away, but I wanted to be numb more. And alcohol always worked in the past." Athos shrugs. "I miss getting wasted. I know it's part of the deal, the craving, and I know it will be better eventually, but it's hard. I hope I can work it out, this time. If I fail again it's not for a lack of trying, this much I can promise, though."

Their little speech is followed by nodding, patting their shoulder, words of encouragement. Milady witnesses it, on the verge of tears, not quite following, and then suddenly the group breaks up, says goodbye to Athos. Then, they are alone.

She steps into their sight, and Athos looks _happy_ , as if she hadn't abandoned them all, and they pull her into an embrace. "You have amazing timing."

"It's one of my better qualities," she whispers, smiling through her tears. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I was..." _Desperate. Lonely. Hopeless. Pathetic._ "I missed you."

"You're lucky, I'm about to check out of this establishment. There are some formalities I have to get done first, but then... I'm going home."

Milady bites her lip, silent, keeping her eyes shut.

"Can I take you home, too?", Athos asks softly.

And against her better judgment, against _everything_ , she nods. They kiss, out of habit and affection and longing, and it's tender, welcoming, safe. For the first time since Aramis' death Milady doesn't feel the need to run.

She's going home.


	5. Even If You Don't Exist

I present the finale, but worry not, dear reader, there are prequels and sequels to follow. In the meanwhile please enjoy Porthos' POV, I was told it's heartbreaking and tear-invoking.  
 **Chapter warnings** : Angst, sex in the second and third part (more vague than not but still, the rating for this chapter is "mature", just to be safe), mentions of abuse.

* * *

F I V E

… _Even when you don't exist I'm always in love with you_

The truth is that Porthos turns around and runs. Not thinking, hardly breathing, not crying – which surprises him, honestly, he'd expected tears, an overflow of emotion, something _,_ _more_ than this urge to get away -, just running, straight out of the living room, out of the house, into the open street.

Milady looked pale, almost transparent, thin, and tired. So tired. He had wanted to be strong. Stronger than in the months before, anyway. But he couldn't stay. When she'd met his gaze, his scars had flared up with pain, her name, erased from his body, cut away, gone, _gone like her_ , burning brightly above his heart. Into the core of his soul. And so he'd run. He still wants to run, but he doesn't know where to, he's lost, without direction, so he just stops. Dead. Dead in his tracks, his mind and body painfully alive.

The violent beating of his heart fills his ears, and the sound reminds Porthos of waves crashing against solid rock. His blood being the waves, his skin being the not-so-solid rock. Breaking, cracking, bursting; it all lies clearly in the future. If his heart keeps up the speed, the force, his body will give in. Because he still can't believe she's back. Back in his life. In their lives. Just like that. It's like all of his most fervent wishes and worst nightmares came true, all at once, and he's not prepared, he's not prepared for _whatever_ this is. A reunion? A short intermezzo? A cruel joke? A... second chance? And he can't let himself believe it, any of it, because it would tear him apart. Not knowing is kinder, more merciful than absolute clarity. Not knowing leaves space for hope. A tiny, foolish hope that stayed alive through the worst of the pain, the loneliness, the anger, the blood and tears, through the beginnings of accepting, healing, and moving on. (For what little he'd moved on.)

Milady is an unmendable wound in his heart, right beneath the one that is Aramis. And while he'd learned to cope, to be happy and unburdened despite them always being there, they still sometimes sucks all life from him and leave him grey, heavy, invisible. And other times they don't just hurt, they spew up bile and guilt and betrayal, and rage hot in his chest, relentlessly, to the point of utter exhaustion – but at least they let him live, let him _feel_. Anything's preferable to impenetrable listlessness taking over.

Porthos can't deny feeling numb now. His pulse is racing, his senses are alert, shrill and overexposed, but he doesn't really feel anything beside a dull gnawing pain in his chest. He knows he's anxious, on the edge of a panic attack probably, and he knows he's on the verge of breaking down, but that's all it is, knowledge without actual feelings behind it. At least none that reach his mind in a way that affects him.

"Porthos." Athos' soft voice from behind him, a warning, a plea. "I'm so sorry. I should've informed you before we arrived. This is on me." _Not her_ , implies their tone. "I apologize. I truly am sorry."

 _Too late_ , yells something inside Porthos, but he doesn't say it out loud, doesn't turn around, too busy keeping himself from bolting. It hurts. Slowly, the acid of betrayal – again, _again_ \- seeps into his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut, because it's so _unfair_ . It's so unbelievably unfair that it makes him want to punch things. To run and never return. And suddenly, there _are_ tears. He's shaking. He wants to sit down and never get up again. He wants to scream at Athos and Milady. He does neither. Keeps staring down the street until it goes blurry in front of him.

"Porthos." Soothing, this time, followed by a careful touch.

"Why." It's all he can force out. _Why_ is all he needs to understand. Because it doesn't make _sense_.

"She wants to come home. We are home. _You_ are home. It's..."

"I'm not her home. Not anymore. Send her away," Porthos says and feels like he doesn't just hurt Milady and himself, but also Aramis. Deadness drills into his body, making space for emptiness.

"She took a hotel room for now. If you don't want her to move in again, she won't. You won't see her, if you don't want to. I'm sorry you had to now. I didn't think. Not about the consequences. I. I'm sorry."

"I trusted..." _Her. You. Aramis._ Porthos' voice breaks, because Athos bringing Milady back is like a confirmation that his lot in life is to be betrayed (and abandoned and left behind), to be lied to. And he tried so hard to convince himself that it wasn't how reality worked, that he'd just been unlucky a few times, but this? It hits him where it hurts. He should've known when Athos told d'Art and him that they didn't need them to pick them up. "Why didn't you say something when you called."

"Because I was scared you'd go. Not that I prevented it from happening, did I now." There's not the hint of laughter or a smile in their voice. "I'm sorry. I hurt you, unnecessarily and deliberately, because I couldn't stand the thought of... you gone." _Like her_ , this is what Athos actually means, and suddenly Porthos' anger fades and he's left with nothing to hold on to. Tears slip over his face.

"Should I tell her to leave so you can go inside again?"

He sobs, uncontrollably, because this is about _Milady_ , Milady who left him with nothing but a letter ( _I don't love you enough to stay, I don't love you enough to stay, I don't love you enough to stay_ ), Milady who came back anyway. He sobs, because he can't find it in his heart to tell anyone it's okay that she's here now, that he'll be okay with her staying, and because he knows that's cruel, maybe as cruel as she was to him. Because there's nobody he'd rather be around than Milady, and because that's also the reason he can't let her into his life again, not after all these months of silence.

Athos doesn't say anything, just gently puts their arms around him, and kisses the corner of his mouth. Porthos almost doesn't notice when Athos' body is replaced with d'Artagnan's against his own, if it wasn't for the way d'Artagnan grips him tighter, faer body closer, hotter, _trembling_.

"I know... I know, babe... I'm sorry," fae whispers against his neck and Porthos thinks fae's crying too.

* * *

When Porthos quietly enters d'Artagnan's room that night, fae doesn't ask questions and wraps faerself around him, kissing him, caressing his skin, breathing comforting nothingness against his lips. Athos is staying with Milady at the hotel – and he tries not to be upset about that, but he fails, time and time again -, so they are alone. It's a seldom ocurrence since the day d'Artagnan and Porthos had confessed their kiss to Athos, since they've been together as a trio. (And it's so different with them, so different from what he had with Milady and Aramis.)

D'Artagnan's eyes are black mirrors as fae's watching him in the dark. He holds fae in an embrace, skin pressed to skin, their noses almost touching, breathing evening out, his fingers twirling a strand of faer hair; which d'Art usually wouldn't be pleased with, but tonight fae's permitting. Porthos can't tell if it's because fae is pitying him or because fae is too shaken faerself to deny any kind of physical contact. He stops, though, letting his fingers trail down d'Artagnan's neck instead, and keeps his hand on faer back.

"Are you okay?", he asks, eventually, softly, covered by darkness and grateful for it. There's too much his face is giving away and... it's not that he doesn't want to share it with faer, but he's not ready to admit it to himself. Not yet.

"I'm not. Are you?", d'Artagnan says with a half-sided, sad smile.

"No."

Fae moves closer, until their noses touch, until fae can kiss him. The tenderness is almost too much, the affection too genuine, the gesture too open. Tears spring to his eyes, and he can't stop himself from saying: "If it had been me, if I had died, she wouldn't have left. She wouldn't have left Aramis."

D'Artagnan stops kissing him, but doesn't move away. Faer fingertips are firm on his body, faer heart beating as fast as his own. Silent. Porthos doesn't _want_ to continue, because it hurts, it hurts so much, but he's already talking again in a rushed hushed voice: "She was broken when he died. And sometimes I think. Maybe she'd be happier if I was dead and Aramis was alive. She loved him so much. She still does. And I can't even blame her, because given the choice...? Who wouldn't...? It wouldn't be the first time. If I could. I'd trade places in a blink, if it made them whole."

"Don't ever say such a terrible thing again," d'Artagnan whispers under faer breath, pulling him closer, incredibly close. "If Aramis was here, he'd kiss some sense into you. And if Milady had heard this... she'd _slap_ some sense into you." Porthos closes his eyes, wetness all over his face. "You're not the second choice."

The conviction in d'Artagnan's voice almost makes Porthos believe faer.

* * *

Weeks pass and Milady is there but also not. She's not with them on missions, she's not in the house when he's there, she's like a lingering shadow that he can't – _won't_ – catch. Athos spends a lot of time with her, and Porthos has come to accept their bond as it is, not questioning it, because it's like before (before Aramis' death, _before_ ) when everything else isn't. She's asked d'Artagnan for a talk and fae had agreed under the condition that he doesn't mind. He does, but he can't keep them apart on the basis of his broken heart. So d'Art has gone and talked to her. They parted on neutral ground, which was... a start after whatever had happened between them, he supposes.

Porthos goes up the stairs. It's late evening, he's tired, and Athos and d'Art went out on their own, so he figures he'll be alone for some hours, which means he can stay with... well, Aramis, for a bit. He pushes the door to Aramis' room open before he can ask himself why the door wasn't properly closed. There, bathed in the last of the sunlight, stands Milady, holding one of Aramis' shirts in her hands, head snapping up, into his direction. The sun crowns her with a halo, like her short hair is made of fiery gold, even though it's dark like her eyes.

He doesn't move. A thousand things race through his mind – each version of what he thought he'd say to Milady once she confronted him melting into one huge mess of an unspeakable word -, and he's too puzzled to say anything. Milady carefully folds the shirt and puts it back into the closet, then she turns around.

"I loved you first."

Of all he things he'd imagined she'd say, this wasn't one of them. Porthos' heart clenches, the scars of her name crawling into his chest like worm-like insects.

"I loved you first," she repeats, taking a step closer, "and you must know that I will love you last. Even if you hate me. Even if you feel nothing for me. Even if you never want to see me again."

Porthos can't reply, his lungs pulsate in the rhythm of his heart and make it hard to breathe, and Milady comes closer, slowly but steadily. She smells like cigarette smoke and flowers, and now he notices that the dress she wears is one that Aramis and him got her for their anniversary what seems like a lifetime ago.

She touches his chest, softly, and then his stomach. Harder. "There." The palm of her hand flat against his skin, building up pressure. "I stabbed him." She pushes her hand into his flesh. Once, twice, in rapid movements. "I left him to die." She doesn't take her hand away. "I made him pay for taking Aramis from us."

The surge of arousal is wrong, it's wrong and disgusting and inappropriate, but it's desperate and overwhelming, and so Porthos grabs Milady by the waist, and she throws herself at him, fingers digging into his back, and they end up against a wall, breathing heavily, kissing and biting and pulling and teasing. (They are both mimicking the way Aramis used to kiss them, and they're surrounded by his things, all the memories of him, and it's almost as if he's with them in this moment.)

And when Milady pulls his pants down with a hiss, and when he rips her panties, and when they don't undress any further before he takes her and she takes him, and they crush, lips meeting with too much force, and it hurts and tastes like salt, they don't care.

They just don't care.

* * *

"I'm a coward." Milady is standing in front of them, at the head of the dinner table, and she seems composed. Not guilty, even though she admits it, her guilt. A _coward_. She used to call Athos that, and it was the worst insult she had for them, so it's a sting to his chest when Porthos hears her use this word for herself. A tiny part of him agrees (it's the petty, hurt part that refuses to understand her reasons for leaving, which is also the most honest part as much as he dislikes to admit that to himself).

There are bruises on her arm, looking like smudged stains in green and brown shades, and Porthos can't look at them. Seeing them makes him feel guilty, because he hurt her, he was too rough, and it doesn't matter that he has the marks of her teeth and nails on his body. He went too far, period. The worst thing about it is that he doesn't know if he was really _that_ desperate, that raw in his want, or if he'd wanted to hurt her. To... punish her. Thinking about the fact that he can't rule out this possibility, not really, not for sure, not in retrospect, makes him want to throw up.

"I'm a coward and I left." Her voice is calm, but her eyes are not. They flicker from d'Artagnan to Athos and to him. Stay with him. "I was afraid of losing you too. With Aramis dead... We were not immortal anymore. It scared me. It still scares me." She looks at him and he knows how hard it is for her to be this open about her feelings, about her self-proclaimed weakness. "What I did was... right for me, for some time, but not for you. I hurt you." Her eyes rest on him, still. "I was driven by a need for revenge, but once I had blood on my hands... it wasn't enough. I couldn't replace you. I'm here to make amends. And I'm not asking for your forgiveness or your trust, but I hope that maybe, someday, you deem me worthy of both again."

D'Artagnan takes his hand, squeezing it lightly, and Porthos holds Milady's gaze.

"I have something for you," she continues, taking out a velveteen jewellery box, "you could call it a promise."

Upon opening it the box reveals five delicate gold rings in different sizes, one of which is attached to a necklace that also bears a small golden cross. It reminds Porthos of something, the shape of the cross, the making of it. It actually looks like a resized replica of Aramis' cross- his throat closes up. D'Artagnan squeezes his hand harder.

"Is that...?", Athos asks, voice breaking. She gives them a quick nod.

"I got it back, after I killed his murderer. It's not the original anymore, it's... transformed." _Like Aramis_ , is what she doesn't say, but they all hear it, it's visible in their faces. "I had it remade into these rings and this cross. One for each of us. The fifth is Aramis', as is the cross, and I propose," her eyes are wild and sparkle with all the tears she has already shed, "that we wear it in turns. As a reminder. As promise. I know it's not." An angry line of doubt appears on her brow. "It's not the same, but-"

Porthos gets up, hastily, and hugs her tight to his body. _I love you._ He's not sure if he says it out loud, but she knows, she must know, and that's enough.

 _I love you._

* * *

Treville appears on the first anniversary of Aramis' death. He's dressed in black, his cane matching, and the look on his face is solemn. It's the first time he visits since Milady's return, and she doesn't acknowledge his presence at all while Athos and d'Art and he himself greet him with hugs.

"I have to tell you something important," he says, and looks at Milady and Milady alone, "but first we have to pay our respects to Aramis. Shall we go?"

They leave for the graveyard, a quintet of black shapes among tombstones, and it's Porthos who wears the necklace with Aramis' ring and cross. The metal is warm against his skin, soothing in the sight of the white marble stone that marks the empty grave with Aramis' name on it.

"We miss you."

"We love you."

"We won't forget you."

"You'll always belong to us."

Silence. They are holding hands, in front of Aramis' grave, and it shouldn't feel like they ask for his blessing but it does. There's a certain peace. A heavy, sad-ish peace, but peace nonetheless. Porthos looks up as two women, a redhead and a blonde, pass them by. He meets their eyes, and they don't look away. Not immediately.

Suddenly, another person shows up behind them. Porthos tilts his head. Recognition hits him like a bullet. Time stops. The world cracks. The cross burns into his flesh. And he can't breathe, can't talk, can't move, because it's impossible, but at the same time he hears himself call out: "Aramis...?!"

* * *

 **End Notes** : PLOT TWISTS, PLOT TWISTS EVERYWHERE (even though they may not have been that surprising to some of you!). Thanks to those of you who've been reading and double thanks to those who also left comments. I hope you liked the finale, but this series as a whole is far from over. Stay tuned, if you're interested, there'll be new fic soon!


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